Necessary Evil
by Busman's Holiday
Summary: Brendan and Ste are happily married until the arrival of Brendan's estranged half brother Diarmuid arrives and threatens to destroy their blissful life. Stendan AU.
1. Chapter 1

_A/N: You might find the premise of this fic a little confusing so here's what you need to know. The canon basics are true (Brendan went to prison, Seamus is dead etc) but we start this fic some years later with Brendan and Ste happily married. The world they live in is run by a corrupt government, (the leader is called the potentate – emperor basically) and the UK is called The Isle. Think a Hunger Games style world. The rest, I hope is straight forward. It's an unusual premise but I really hope you enjoy. This is a long chapter to set the scene and the next chapter will be in a couple of weeks. Interested to know your thoughts!_

_::_

**Necessary Evil**

_It seems sort of funny to describe a part of my life as beautiful, when now each day comes with the dread of still being alive. But it was. I remember the good days. I remember them all too clearly but it's a blister I can't pick at. I don't touch it. Us. Long tangled kisses and my fingers in his hair. Our family. Before Diarmuid and the war and losing Brendan. Losing my life. It's like a movie I watched years ago and day by day the picture fades, the sound of Brendan's voice has diminished into silence, nothing more than a feeling. Brendan has become a sensation at the back of my neck and the pit of my stomach and the thud of my heart. I have no photos left of him anymore – lost to a fire – so when Diarmuid doesn't notice, I search for his half-brother, the man I love, in the hidden corners of his face._

::

Diarmuid had Seamus Brady's gristled qualities to his face, scalpel eyes and a barrelled build. He wasn't unattractive; like the rest of the Bradys, charm seeped from him like aftershave. When he shook Ste's hands for the first time he enclosed his one with two, fixing his gaze on eyes and lips and in low reverb said: "And how did my brother meet someone like you, Steven?"

Ste had gone red at the ears and collar and lying in bed that night with Brendan between his thighs, after that first meeting with Diarmuid, Ste had said quite casually. "He's alright, in'he? Your brother."

Brendan had quietened, seemed to operate on a slower speed, bringing shutters down. "He's not everything he seems," he'd said and his eyes bored into the pillow above Ste's head.

"What'd you mean?" Ste was on the verge of saying he quite liked him. He had that same intoxicating presence Brendan had – not just looking at you but looking right into you, inviting you into a soul-shared world. He spoke in a slow and considered drawl, smiling in all the right places. But there was a thinness to his manners and humour, a falseness, like he could snap at any moment. Ste had tried to push this out of his mind, Diarmuid was family now, after all, and he'd made a real effort with Ste. People could change.

"Just…" Brendan shifted in the bed, grunting a little as he splayed Ste's legs open wider. "Be careful around him."

"You're just saying that cos he's in charge now. You've got a thing against politici –" Ste was all loose smiled and cocky for a second, his legs gripped white, until Brendan's cock surged into him. "_Oh fuck!_" His head thrust back into the pillow, buckling his neck and although his vision was blurred he could just about make out the groaning mass of hair and muscles as Brendan built up the propel of his hips to pound him down into the mattress.

Ste hadn't even known of Diarmuid's existence until they had the telly on one lazy Sunday afternoon. It was one of those gloomy miserable days where all traces of sun had disappeared by four and they'd ended up cuddled up on the sofa, Brendan's fingers cruising the shaven nape of Ste's neck. Ste usually took zero interest in the news and barely understood Brendan's political persuasions, but he knew enough to know that an election was taking place to find a new potentate of the realm. The potentate was important – he supposed – they made all the rules and decisions. He tried to explain to the kids about the potentate, told them it was like their version of a king in the fairytales, only theirs didn't live in a castle. As long as the potentate didn't change the laws too much he didn't worry about it. He mostly thought that all those in the running were pretty much saying the same things as each other. He knew Brendan worried. He worried about capital punishment and invalidating gay marriage. Ste didn't. He was happy and devoid of any worry.

But this Sunday, with the news on, they revealed the three men in the running (female potentates weren't allowed to run since a law was formed thirty years back) and Ste felt Brendan bolt out of his seat when the third man was revealed. Diarmuid Brady – a cool eyed man, clean shaved and a sharp chin, with hair that was long enough to brush his ears.

"Fuck," Brendan had said looking at the screen. The man was five years older than him and looked directly into the camera.

"What?"

"He's my half-brother."

Brendan had explained the whole story. How Diarmuid had been a bastard of his father's, adopted and raised by Seamus' brother. "I met him once. He pally'ed up with me when we were alone and then when Seamus appeared…well, Seamus he set the two of us against each other – made us scrap like two bulls to see who the pansy was. Diarmuid landed me in a single punch, just like Dad wanted."

Ste had felt a chill through his bones. "Did Seamus ever…with Diarmuid?"

Brendan was off, staring into another world. Cold. "No," he said, his voice a ghost. "No, Diarmuid was Seamus' favourite son. In a very different way. But I haven't seen him or heard from him since then." Brendan didn't want to focus on it and flicked the news off, heading to the kitchen to make a drink. They both made a good job at forgetting all about Diarmuid Brady's reappearance until the day they heard he'd triumphed in the polls and was to be crowned potentate just three months later.

Diarmuid had been living in The West States, coming over to the Isle with ideas of strength and economy. It was what the people wanted and democracy gave it to them. As soon as Diarmuid landed on Isle soil, he made contact with Brendan. They were meeting for dinner – the two of them with Diarmuid and a mistress of his. He even described her as that on the phone, saying he was 'beyond' a wife.

"What does that even mean?" Ste had said in the car on the way there. He kept touching Brendan's muscled arms through his shirt. It was a comfort thing.

"Means he can't keep it in his pants," Brendan said following the SatNav instructions.

"Not like us then," Ste said, scrunching up his nose. "Only got eyes for each other."

"Yeah and that's the way it should be. Fuck knows I'll take back that wedding ring if you've got any other ideas." Brendan's sense of humour came with a dry tone, rumbling out of his lips.

"What did Diarmuid say when he found out you was married to a bloke?"

Brendan shrugged. "Already knew about it. Said he looked me up. Potentates can do that sort of thing, I suppose."

Ste crossed his arms. "That don't seem right. Invasion of privacy or sommit, isn't it?"

Brendan said nothing, concentrating on the drive.

"So what did he say then? Was he surprised?"

"He said:" - Brendan started, adopting a thicker accent than his own, one that sounded coated in asphalt – "_You've picked a young lad. I didn't have you marked as that shallow_."

"What's that meant to mean?" Ste thought on it a moment longer. "He's looked up my age too?"

"Time to get used to it, Steven. He can do whatever he wants."

"We better keep on his good side then," Ste said, touching Brendan's arm again.

Ste's resolve to stay vigilant and suspicious of Diarmuid hadn't lasted long. His charms equalled Brendan's and Ste spent the time awed by the amount of extravagance on display. Even though he was a chef, working in a decent restaurant, Ste'd never eaten anything like the dishes Diarmuid ordered for them. The lady with him – his mistress Mariana - with her dark eyes and elegant features was like a model to look at and positioned herself as Ste's best friend as the night went on. Still, he felt Diarmuid's eyes on him most of the night. He felt exposed.

In bed that night, after Brendan had flipped him over and fucked him for a second time, wiping beads of sweat from his spine, Ste panted out flat next to him. "D'you think he liked me. Your brother?" Ste was still getting used to the Irish vowels of his name. They were jagged in his mouth.

Brendan lifted the hand that was masking his forehead, opening his eyes. "Why wouldn't he?" Brendan ran his fingertips along Ste's cheekbone and down on the soft pad of Ste's lips. Ste wet the tips of his fingers. They still tasted of cum and he wasn't sure whose.

"You've been dead quiet," Ste said. "Apart from all the grunting and groaning."

Brendan smirked. "Yeah? I worry about him. What he's got planned."

"Do you think he's nasty, like…like Seamus?" Ste didn't like bringing up Seamus into conversation, but now that he was dead his presence haunted them less.

"It's in our genes, isn't it? So…" Brendan let out a puff of air.

Ste shook his head; Brendan wasn't like that, not to him, not anymore.

"We just gotta keep in his good books for an easy life." Ste repeated his beliefs, resting his head down on Brendan's chest, kissing through the forest of his hair. "We're his family, in't we? Politicians always look after their family. It's what they do, isn't it?"

Brendan hummed, stroking the back of Ste's hair and they fell asleep like that. At least, Ste did.

Before they knew it, Diarmuid had moved them south, to the capital, and had them set up in their own private estate. Brendan resisted for as long as he could, vocalising his hatred for being treated like a charity case. Diarmuid had compromised in the end, when Ste put up a fight too, giving them a place to live but backing down on giving them staff and security. Assassination attempts on the life of the potentate and associates used to be a regular occurrence decades ago but was less common by the time Diarmuid came into power and Brendan hated the thought of being boxed in. Ste managed to transfer jobs, although he was slightly wary of Diarmuid having pulled the strings for him.

When Ste thinks back on those good days now, it's one weekend in particular that has burned into his memories. It's a memory that feels like it's in his blood; it's a part of his soul. It was a Saturday six months into Diarmuid's ascent into power and Ste had christened his and Brendan's new home as "our little love nest". They were settled, blissful. As settled and as blissful as two hot tempered and aggressive men could be living together. The testosterone was a smog in the house. Thick and intoxicating.

That evening, as the storm of a row had dragged their moods down to a pitch grey, Brendan had somehow ushered Ste into the car and took him on a long and mostly silent drive. It was a clear night after a hot day where the sun took hours to finally leave. Ste found it impossible not to feel overcome in the car's trapped scents as Brendan had sprayed himself in a new and gut-warming aftershave. He couldn't even remember what they'd argued about. He rarely could. Being so close meant they knew how to rile each other all too easily. When they had driven to the outback of fuck knows where, Brendan stopped the car. It was positioned on the high point of an expanse of hills. In the daytime these hills would be a patchwork of earthy shades of farmland but at night that were overshadowed by the pin pricked star light. They had stopped in the very definition of isolation.

"You're not going to bury my body here, are you?" Ste asked, mouth sulkily pouting but with a soft tilt of the corners.

"Not today," Brendan said switching off the engine and plunging the car into the shared darkness of the night. He unbuckled his seat belt and unloaded himself from the car, hopping into the bonnet so that his back rested like the windscreen was his recliner.

Ste was full of tuts but followed the move, surprised they both had their feet up on Brendan's car. Brendan always loved material things - god forbid anyone mess up his suits - but it didn't match the depth of his feeling for people. He had his arms folded up against his chest, making them look even more muscular. Ste had made an agreement with himself years ago that even after an argument, even after the words and the glares, he was only human: he still found himself admiring his husband's attractiveness.

"What are we even doing here?" Ste asked with characteristic impatience.

Brendan shushed him and pointed up at the sky. Ste puffed out his cheeks, sighing.

"Makes you realise how small we are. Tiny, insignificant." Brendan said.

Ste had his eyes rolled, sceptically following Brendan's gaze. If this was his way of erasing their spat he wasn't having any of it. They'd made a rule of talking through their problems, not just shoving them to one side.

"I used to look at the stars when I was a kid. To me, Heaven was out there, up there. The stars were just a taster of how beautiful it was. And as I got older, those stars they looked further and further away. Out of reach." Brendan's gaze stopped mapping across the constellations, he turned his head and before Ste's glance caught up with it, he realised Brendan's eyes were fixed on him, his expression lit up in navy and silvery greys. "When Heaven was too far, I looked out for the sea. To this isle. It was closer. Reachable. I thought it was for escape but maybe it was something else. You know? Something drawing me there. Better than some kiddie notion of heaven. Something warmer and grounded, flesh and bone. Something that would accept me when those pearly gates wouldn't."

"What?" Ste said even though Brendan's pauses and the dark openness of his mouth made him sure of the answer.

"You."

Ste drew his mouth to one side. The romantic in him blushed, but he was stubborn when he wanted to be. "You didn't know I was out there; you don't believe in all that stuff."

"No, you're right. I don't." Brendan nodded, leaning his head to the side. "I got lucky I guess." He smiled at Ste tightly as if he still wasn't sure if he was let off the hook. Then his fingers reached out and his thumb made contact with Ste's cheek. "I'm sorry."

Ste looked up, covering Brendan's hand with his. "Me too." They were quiet, sat like that for a good while longer, until Ste's ego took over and he curled. "Better than Heaven, am I?"

Brendan looked at him with a sly glance. "More fun."

Ste propped himself up onto his palms and leaned across, wetting his lips. "Now I'm beginning to see why you brought me here," he said, nose scrunching. He sunk down, pressing his lips around Brendan's top lip and moustache. A hot breath of mischief spurted out of his nose and a hand crept under Brendan's t-shirt until Brendan's hand stopped him and gripped it.

"Let's go for a walk," he said, pulling himself and Ste off the bonnet of the car and hurtled in a half-skid down a narrow path towards the fields.

The crop fields were crisp, a papery brown, and rustling as they passed through. Brendan wasn't one for walks or the countryside and Ste found himself tripping over his feet in order to keep up. He piped up now and again with a, "Wait a sec..." or a, "Brendan, will you just...". But his requests fell on deaf ears and before he knew it he'd lost sight of the car and they were in the midst - waist high - of a neglected field. Brendan stopped dead and the height of the moon made his shadow stretch threateningly over the grass. He turned and with it, gulped Ste into its darkness and in that second, mouth and hands were on him like he was a fallen piece of Heaven.

Their bodies flattened a well of crops underneath them. Ste hoisted up his hips and edged down his clothes, teeth chattering in the excitement of it all. He wasn't cold but the patterned expanse of goosebumps on his abdomen seemed to be offering up and invitation, which Brendan met on his knees, his tongue drumming at the skin. There were animals in a nearby farm making noises in the dark that might've shivered a coward, but Ste's body arched coiled up without inhibition. As he watched Brendan tug down his clothes and rescue lube from a pocket in his jeans, Ste rubbed a saliva driven finger across the shy ring of his opening.

"This ain't a solo project," Brendan said, betraying his words and fisting his own dick before his knees were muddied on the ground again.

"I was making sure I was ready, wern'I?" Ste said, opening up his legs and feeling that tightness of his chest as Brendan positioned his body into a fold.

Brendan grunted, ploughing the soft head of his thumb inside Ste and rubbing against the resistance. Ste's hands at the side clawed at the earth, nostrils flaring at the flood of air. His foot jerked, caught between pushing Brendan away and pulling him closer, but splayed in the air like that he wasn't even close to changing Brendan's motives. When Brendan came up and over him, panting like the finish of a manic laugh, Ste was blocked in total darkness. Brendan had blacked out the moon. Without sight his other senses held reign. Brendan's cock filled him, slow at first, letting his body adjust, letting each ripple of motion blossom out over the skin. Ste felt the intensity in waves, heavy and thick like cement being poured into him - no, fiercer than that - like lava. Brendan was molten and fluid as time progressed, transfixed in the sweeping moans of Ste's body. Ste couldn't see a change in Brendan's face or movement. He could feel it in the air surrounding them. Brendan's hips whipped back and forth crippling Ste into words and sounds that had no meaning. His insides were liquid, bones thrumming with heat. Brendan didn't last much longer and the starred sky blurred once he'd come. Spent, Brendan slumped on top of Ste and Ste was left milking whatever friction was left to finish himself off. They separated, half dressed and bodies reeling, their backs flat to the earth.

Perhaps Ste remembers that weekend for another reason. He remembers it for being the last of the good days. Days which were clear and untainted. He remembers it for being the last days he felt truly safe, truly happy. The last days of it just being the two of them. The Monday after that weekend seemed like not just a new chapter, but a whole new book.

They both had the day off. It was a public holiday, celebrating the birth of a long dead potentate. Brendan was up early and dressing, against Ste's wishes and to his surprise.

"Where you off to so early in a suit?" Ste asked, groggily running a hand over his eyes.

"Diarmuid called. Said he wanted to see me. Us."

"What about?"

"How should I know?" The mention of his brother's name and all its associations had made him snappy. Even though they'd moved closer to the capital they hadn't seen much of Diarmuid. It had been a relief that he hadn't invaded their life, although it seemed like things were progressing exactly how Brendan had feared: once he'd laid the foundations of his government in The Isle, he was ready to involve himself in their lives.

::

When they arrived at Diarmuid's estate they were greeted by a whole host of security checks and searches that resembled that of a prison. It put them both on edge and Brendan made sure to keep touching the small of Ste's back or his shoulder blades to make him feel safe. Ste liked that, he needed it. They were left in a reception room by a woman claiming to be Diarmuid's PA and Brendan nudged Ste after she left, saying he expected Diarmuid was screwing her too.

"Yeah well, it's all that power, innit? He can have whoever he wants."

Brendan glanced at him from the side, raising his brow. Ste tutted as if it didn't even warrant any further comment.

When Diarmuid entered the room, he didn't have any guards with him. He was lighter on his feet than Brendan – his importance made him float – but the thinness of his cheery mood was transparent. A violence gleamed underneath. He reached out to shake their hands and Ste felt his icicle fingers linger and stroke his wrists. It was done so fast but felt noticeable still.

"What's this all about, Diarmuid?" Brendan asked, folding his arms across his chest.

"Business," he said vaguely, "Come through here. Let me show you the property first."

They were given the grand tour. Staircase after staircase. Hundreds of staff. Diarmuid lived, worked and played here. Ste asked about Mariana – where she was – and saw a cold shadow pass Diarmuid's face and then he smiled rigidly like it was made of stone.

"Creative differences," he said with a wink and while Brendan looked out of one of the floor length windows, Diarmuid passed behind Ste and squeezed his shoulder.

They eventually sat down for a meeting and Diarmuid said it plainly.

"There's a war brewing. In the east. With us. They want to take me and the whole system down. They say it's corrupt." Diarmuid laughed hollowly and Ste didn't dare himself to look at Brendan. He knew that Brendan felt the same as those who had started the conflict. Brendan didn't believe in having a potentate. He said it wasn't a democracy at all. Ste wasn't sure what the difference was; it was how it had always been.

Ste zoned out of the conversation and when he reconnected he saw Brendan's fists balling.

"No. I ain't doing your dirty work."

Diarmuid clasped his fingers together. They looked like stacked bones. "Brendan I'm afraid I can't give you that choice. It's one short trip. You negotiate a settlement and then we won't have a full scale war on our hands."

"What? No," Ste said, catching up. "You can't go. It'll be dangerous." He felt like a child.

"It's okay, Steven. I'm not going." Brendan raised his hands at Diarmuid. "I've got too much at stake. Send someone else."

Diarmuid paused, taking in a slow breath. "Look. I didn't want to have to tell you like this, but you're making it difficult for me. If you don't go over there for me, exchange some drugs, some cash – keep them sweet – then you'll be joining the army. This, brother…" – from his time in The West States, he'd developed a twang to his accent – "is my compromise. All ex-cons. Ones who've served longer than two years, will be shipped off to fight."

"Cannon fodder."

Diarmuid gave a fraction of a shrug. "It's a necessary evil."

Brendan stood, and with it the chair fell backwards. "Fuck!" He slammed his hands on the desk. "So you're telling me that _you_, _YOU_, can't bend the rules for me? Your own brother. You came up with this fucking law!"

Ste saw Diarmuid process the word brother and push it out of focus. "Brendan, I am. You have my word. You'll be back here in a blink. Young Steven won't even notice you gone." At this his eyes met with Ste's. Ste saw something softer in him, if only for a second.

Ste shook his head. "Nah, nah. It's dangerous. I don't want…"

Brendan honed his attention on Ste. "And if I go…what then? What of Steven?"

"You'll have your criminal record wiped free and Steven will be looked after. I'll make sure of it. He'll have the greatest protection I can offer."

"Why are you talking like you're gonna do it?" Ste said, looking imploringly at Brendan.

Ste felt like the two adults were talking over his head.

"If I come back and even one hair on his head is outta place…I swear…"

"Not gonna happen."

The brothers were standing face to face – matching heights, matching eyes, matching colouring. Diarmuid rested a hand on Brendan's shoulder.

"I trust you - only you – to pull of this deal for me. It's the Brady charm!" Diarmuid tried teasing, lightening the tone. The transparency returned like a two way mirror. Ste's head was rushing with the feeling of being completely out of depth.

"And the laws, what other laws are changing?"

"Minor. Minor details."

"How do they affect us?" Brendan gestured to Ste.

"Well. If you can't go through with this deal then…" Diarmuid rubbed at his temples and then adjusted his tie. He sat on the corner of the heavy mahogany desk. His leg touched Steven's. "All those ex-cons who don't sign up will lose all property and will not have any legal rights to work."

"Fuck you Diarmuid."

His cheek twitched. "It's not a choice I made lightly. Why else do you think I'm sending you over there to negotiate for me? You're family. Both of you. I want to protect you."

"I need some fucking air," Brendan said, storming towards the doors. Ste got up to join him but he told him to stay and Ste soon felt Diarmuid's hand on his shoulder, pressing him back into his seat.

"I am sorry for taking him away from you," he said.

"I don't understand," Ste said, scratching nails down his face. "We never had wars before…we never had nothing like this…everyone had rights…"

"Oh Steven…" Diarmuid said, his voice absorbing this velvet quality of someone trying to soothe. Just then a knock at the door came. A young blond man in a clumsily fitting suit entered, a press pass swinging at his neck.

"Sorry to disturb," he said, his voice scratchy with nerves. "Mr Brady, you wanted to see me?" It was unnerving to hear another Brady surname.

Diarmuid's face morphed, his mouth sprouting upward arrows. "Of course," he said. He sprung off the table and introduced the young man. "Steven, this is Aaron, my most trusted member of the press office. Aaron, this is Steven. My brother's husband. I know I've mentioned him before."

Ste saw something slip into Aaron's expression and he held out his hand. "Yes. I've heard a lot about you," he said and then moved quickly next to Diarmuid.

"Steven if you can just excuse us. We're just stepping next door for a minute." They headed into another wood-panelled side room and as Diarmuid left, Ste realised his mobile phone had been left behind. He didn't like to interrupt so Ste sat there staring at the phone, hoping Brendan would return soon. He felt sick at the thought of him leaving to go and deal with some sort of bad people, even if Diarmuid had promised safety. Something wasn't right.

The mobile phone rang persistently after ten minutes of it sitting on the desk in front of Ste. He took a breath, realising it could be important and crossed the room to disturb the meeting. He didn't think to knock and as soon as he hadn't, as soon as he turned the handle and strode straight in, he realised his mistake.

As soon as he entered the room everything was skewed. It wasn't the conversation or meeting he expected. The young man from the press had his hair pulled back from his face, saliva running off his chin and his eyes closed. On his knees. Diarmuid, eyes fixed on the walls ahead, grunted in a thudding rhythm matching the movement of his thrusts. He fed his dick into Aaron's mouth without care or apology, groaning hungrily as Aaron's hands squeezed his arse.

Ste didn't have the speed of thought then to realise, only on hindsight did he acknowledge it, but Diarmuid had wanted Ste to walk in on him with the young lad from the press office. He'd wanted him to see it all. To plant a seed. To infect him in some way. Ste never told Brendan what he saw. There wasn't even time, even if he knew how to reveal it. By nightfall Brendan had packed, ready to be shipped off to the eastern territories and Ste would remember that night as the last time he saw Brendan alive.


	2. Chapter 2

_**A/N: Thank you for all your encouraging comments and your willingness and enthusiasm to read something a bit unusual. Sorry it's been so long, the updates will be more regular from now on.**_

_**::**_

_**: **_

_**Part Two**_

_It's the thought of that night – our last – that fuels every hour I'm awake. Because it can't be our last – I won't let it. There's more for us. I see him clear as you like in my head like a beacon guiding me home. It's been four long years without him and I still remember how his lips tasted that final time. The heavy salt of his tears. I wonder if he remembers my coldness, the way I held back from making that moment a goodbye. I didn't know what Diarmuid had planned for me but I could guess. And I had to think of Steven. I had to stop him from feeling the same fear as I did. I was brave for us both. I pictured us together, welded as tight as steel. Unbreakable. I still picture it. He feels closer now. I'm getting closer._

_::_

Ste stayed glued to the airport seats which overlooked the runway through a panoramic sheet of glass until the final wisps of disturbed cloud had settled. Brendan was gone. He'd promised to call as soon as he landed and with a solid arm around Ste's shoulders, Diarmuid had reassured him too.

Brendan had been stoic when he left, barely meeting Ste's gaze and solid to Ste's unflinching need to hold and be held by him. Ste had never travelled much further than the Isle so to him watching Brendan board a plane to some far off place in the east seemed incomprehensibly dangerous. He'd even asked Brendan why Diarmuid didn't have men to do the charming and negotiating for him – diplomats. Even if it wasn't legitimate business and resembled a drug scam they'd want to keep from the public, surely there had to be someone else? But Brendan's responses were sparse and guarded and when he suggested for the fifth time that Brendan disobey Diarmuid and stay, Brendan had snapped. With the new laws they could lose everything he'd said – they'd be penniless, homeless.

"This is the only way I can keep you safe," he'd said to Ste, pressing their foreheads together and their breaths raking over the same air.

When he'd begun boarding the plane Brendan hadn't even turned back and that hurt Ste more. He swallowed down a knot in his throat. _He's trying to be brave_, Ste told himself, balling fists at his side. If he pinched his palms hard enough he hoped that would stop another rush of tears.

Diarmuid stood by, security a little distance away to give the illusion that they were almost alone.

"He'll be back before you'd even know he was gone," he said, pulling Ste closer with his arm until the lapels of his extortionate suit dampened with Ste's tears. Held momentarily close to Diarmuid, Ste smelt something familiar and paternal in him that settled the wobble in his voice. He jabbed his fists into his eyes to dry them. "Come on lad," Diarmuid said, shaking him. "I know my brother's a tough act to follow but you'll be safe as houses while he's gone."

Ste wanted to shake his head, tell him it wasn't the same but something dominant in Diarmuid made him nod along and he found himself being dragged into an agreement that he'd stay in a wing of Diarmuid's estate. Just until Brendan returned.

"What about me kids, they're meant to be staying with me for a few months. And I spoke to their mam and she said it'd be good to keep me busy – occupied – while…" he could feel the tears rising again and now out of Diarmuid's grip, he felt the man's hand reach towards him and rest on his cheek. The potentate's ring on his finger was smooth and cold. He felt it all the way through to his bones.

Diarmuid's face creased into a smile. It wasn't like Brendan's. "You think there's no space for the kiddies? Steven, I'm offering you a home – not just a bed for the night." The hook of his finger lifted Ste's chin and the action was so reminiscent of Brendan that Ste felt a twinge of sadness as well as relief. Maybe he'd be okay after all. Looked after.

::

Diarmuid hired a nanny for the kids and whilst Ste was resistant, Diarmuid suggested if he hated it too much it only needed to be temporary. But in a way, Diarmuid was right – with Brendan gone he couldn't think straight, he couldn't give the kids his full attention until he'd heard Brendan was okay. He clock watched, chewing at his thumb and the kids buzzed around happily at the heels of the nanny. Leah had stopped at his feet at one point, head tilted to the side. She could guess something was wrong with her dad, but soon there were more exciting things to be doing and she skipped away to fun.

The phone felt slippery with nerves as Ste held onto it; the pause of silence before Brendan spoke sounded never-ending, like the clean silence in the air after a shot's been fired.

"Hello?" Ste's head pounded with blood and the rush of relief. It was too surreal to feel real – he'd been awake hours and he struggled to distinguish between this and a nightmare.

"It's me," Brendan said. He echoed - thousands of miles away seemed even further.

"You landed. You're okay?" He held onto the phone with both hands as if for extra support.

"You know me, Steven. I'm fine."

Ste exhaled, flooding the phone with a held in gust. He was practically giddy from it, wanting to grin. There was a strangeness to Brendan's voice he attributed to the grogginess of the flight. A tinny reverb, voices in the background.

"I gotta go Steven, but you, you're okay? The kids are alright?"

"Yeah we're fine, we're fine. Everything's all good. But you – no trouble okay? Call me whenever you can. Five times a day. Alright? Promise me. Promise me?" Sometimes that was a little joke between them – _call me five times a day_ - said in sarcastic twee-ness when they were separated by work, like they were sickly teenage lovers who couldn't be parted. Tonight it didn't feel like a joke anymore.

"I love you, yeah?" His voice flitted into a high spike, catching on a ridge in his throat, sounding different again. Final. Ste imagined him fidgeting on the soles of his feet, his fingers gathering speed.

A wall of coldness passed through his body. "No Brendan–" Ste said, talking quickly – panicked "-no don't say it like that. Not like that." His teeth chattered as the rest of his body sobered into a rigid shape.

The pause hurt. There was no sound of breathing or reassuring laughter. He wasn't brushing Ste off; he was saying nothing. That was worse.

"I love you, Steven." He said it with a slower, more deliberate clarity like he was tempering his words to calm Ste down. The voices in the background, deep male voices in languages and accents he didn't know, grew louder and Brendan's voice moved away from the phone.

"I love you too," Ste said. He barely heard his own words through a crackle in his throat. He felt tears slide into his mouth.

The background noise increased and Ste strained to hear. The poor signal made the sounds fractured and he just heard Brendan say, with increasing alarm. "Steven, don't-" before his words were swallowed up by silence and Ste's phone bleeped with the sound that Brendan was long gone.

Cradling the phone as if Brendan were a part of it, Ste hurtled through the corridors, adrenaline blurring everything around him. If Brendan was in trouble then Diarmuid had to get him out of there. He ran, like those dreams where the destination never gets any nearer, and ran. The estate felt daunting anyway, now it felt like he was mazed in – lost. Security had a stronghold on the building's infinite corridors and it took him an age to track Diarmuid down. He was in no mood to be explaining himself and at their every question he huffed in a different direction. His ingrained determination resurfaced when he reached dead ends, pushing past the guards and banging on doors – if he had to get Diarmuid's attention one way or another then he was prepared to kick doors down.

He caught sight of himself in a hallway mirror, face wreaked and blotchy, eyes and nose wet. A wild animal. He felt unhinged, disturbed. Desperate. Eventually security handed him over to one of Diarmuid's assistants and she weaved him through a series of electronic key-pad locked doors until they stood outside Diarmuid's quarters. She phoned through via a telecom and he sounded riled and flustered until she explained Ste was there with her. When the door finally opened, out slid two sheepish looking males, fair haired and clothes baggy where they'd just been redressed. One of them was the young journalist lad Aaron and he and Ste exchanged brief and awkward eye contact before they were escorted out of a tradesman entrance.

Ste tensed, a new release of anger mingled with the embarrassment of interrupting Diarmuid's night made his fists clench. He felt like an idiot, confused by Diarmuid's elusive personality and the regrets started building that he hadn't told Brendan about what he'd discovered. It had seemed so insignificant, even if it was strange, but now he was here alone and Brendan…Brendan…

"Steven, what can I do you for?" Diarmuid said, slinking into the doorway with his sleeves rolled up. He rebuttoned the front of his shirt while flicking his eyes to the PA to indicate he wanted her gone. Then he really saw the state Ste was in. "Jesus, what's happened?"

"It's Brendan," Ste said, pawing at his face to regain some strength in his words. "He called but he didn't sound okay. It sounded like goodbye and you – you _promised_ he'd be fine! You said. And he's not. He's not-" he ran out of breath and lost sense of the words as they tumbled from him.

"Look, come in. Calm down. I'll sort this. Make a few calls. Come in, I'll make you a drink." He stepped back, allowing space for Ste to get in.

"No! No. Right. You need to sort this now. Brendan's over there and something's goin' on and all the while you're here…" - his face contorted in disgust – "doing that, having a right old time!"

Something flashed in Diarmuid's eyes. A sharpness. "We all get lonely Steven, even the potentate."

More sheepish. "I need to know he's okay, alright? Now. I need to know now."

A long period of resistance passed and eventually Ste was coaxed in for a drink. He asked for whiskey, needing the taste of Brendan inside him running alongside his blood. Diarmuid made it at his own personal bar. It didn't taste quite the same but underneath it memories of Brendan flowed. As he sipped at the drink Diarmuid had interpreters on Skype and foreign officials on conference call. It was the middle of the night by Ste was quietly impressed with Diarmuid's command, but then that was his job. Midway through his glass, Ste had to rest it down on a coffee table as he felt his vision grow a little blurry. He'd been up hours but he'd been kept alert by the determination to find Brendan, but now a drowsiness had taken hold like someone dragging him under. Diarmuid was taking calls in the meeting room adjacent to the lounge but the door was open and Ste tried to fixate on the conversation to force himself awake. He drifted, words blurred. His consciousness had a dimmer switch and it grew darker and darker.

When he woke, with no concept of how long he'd been there, he was spread out on Diarmuid's sofa, and the sensation of someone stroking the back of his head. His hairline prickled at the touch and he lay in its pleasure for a moment, the gentle lick of fingers against his skin. Brendan did that in bed if he was ever awake first. He knew all too well that Ste's hunger for sex started early in the morning and sometimes his tongue would curl in ticklish patterns against the soft downy hair at the nape of his neck.

But it wasn't Brendan touching him. It was Diarmuid.

He started and although his grogginess weighed him down, he managed to sit upright. Diarmuid said nothing, just looking at him. His face was unreadable.

Ste didn't have time to question how long he'd been out – he only had one question. "Where's Brendan?"

Diarmuid's eyes blackened, squeezing shut and producing thin trails of tears down his cheeks. They dried fast through his stubbled face. His hands clasped Ste's and then he held them to his mouth, kissing Ste's locked fingers. He shook his head. His eyes were clear again – like the sky reflected on a knife's edge.

"Oh, Steven." His breath quickened and then he drew Ste's forehead against his. "Brendan's gone. He's _gone_."

::

_It wasn't just Brendan dying. It's what came after it. Losing him killed me. I was – I am – dead inside. Empty. I'm inside him and he's inside me but without him I don't work. They say you move on but I haven't. I won't and I can't. Maybe it's because I've shut down. I'm on autopilot. I'm not real anymore. I'm not stupid enough to think he's not really gone – Diarmuid said he saw pictures of his…body. I couldn't look. And I don't believe in Heaven or Hell like he did but I don't want to think that was it – that I won't ever see him again. It hurts._

_But what came after that day, that was worse. But I'm dead inside so I stopped feeling. When Diarmuid told me a war was coming and Brendan hadn't stopped it – I didn't feel anything. I was already dead inside. When he told me word had got out about Brendan trying to attack the East and our house had been burnt to the ground – I didn't feel anything. I was already dead inside. He said he'd look after me, protect me and my children. We were a target now. He said there was a way to make me safe forever. He said there was no other way. No choice. I'd still be Steven Brady. _

_I was already dead inside._


	3. Chapter 3

_**A/N: Thank you all for the reviews – I really appreciate all the love for this unusual story and your patience for the story unravelling! **_

_::_

_:_

* * *

_My dear brother knew what it was like to want Steven. To need him. And from the moment I pinned my brother down to an address, to his state recorded details and saw 'spouse: Mr Steven Brady (formerly Hay)' linked up to his name I knew I wanted him. My need was greater. My brother, the clot of blood in the Brady name, the runt son, weak inside and out – brought shame on the family line. And yet I was the bastard son shunted away from my father's home?_

_So I saw what dear Brendan had – the beautiful boy in his twenties – and I took him. And now he's mine._

_::_

In six months, Ste hadn't taken a breath of air outside. He hadn't felt a breeze or a drop of rain on his cheek since the day Diarmuid told him that Brendan was gone. He lived boxed-in, holed up inside the room Diarmuid had allocated for him. Meals were made for him and mostly they festered in the spot where they'd been left – untouched. The TV on the wall looped an endless cycle of jarring neon cartoons, blasting the catacomb silence of his room but Ste barely noticed.

He numbed himself with alcohol, enough to make him pass out, and when that wasn't enough, he'd amble in ape-like steps to the bathroom and down as many sleeping tablets as had been left for him that day. He'd been policed after that first night alone where he'd tried to take all the pain away. His stomach had been pumped and then he'd been reminded of his children. But he hadn't seen them since. He felt foggy on the facts: had he not wanted them around or had they been taken from him and kept _safe_? He knew he could see them whenever he wanted – Diarmuid had said – but not in this state. He didn't think Amy was caring for them either – Diarmuid said they had tried to contact her but couldn't. But Ste couldn't even look after himself, let alone worry about where Amy was. Diarmuid promised the kids were being safely looked after and Ste had to believe him because that was all he had left.

Brendan was gone.

He lived best in sleep. In those dark hours of unconsciousness he could be himself again. Sleeping shed the pain of knowing what he'd lost and dreams were the closest he had to holding onto life with Brendan. The dreams immersed him in hot summers with Brendan, holidays and larking around with the kids; then there'd be long drives and frosty silences before dinner and Brendan's moods and make-up sex which didn't even reach the bedroom. It was all so _real_. Waking up injected fresh poisons of pain and it hurt deeper, longer.

In the last month, it became a Russian Roulette of sleep. Some nights in his drug curled unconsciousness he'd have those blissful moments with Brendan again and then other nights he'd wake paralysed in fear and screaming – his visions filled of Brendan's death and gore and hellish nightmares he couldn't shake. Diarmuid had learned of these awful bouts – Ste didn't know how he knew, but he didn't question it – and moved himself into quarters just a few doors down. If Ste woke up screaming, Diarmuid would be on high alert and ease himself into Ste's bedroom to calm him back to sleep. He felt like he'd regressed to infancy again – everything done for him – but he had no motivation to shake himself out of it.

When he first heard that Brendan was dead, Ste couldn't believe it. Wouldn't. Brendan Brady was invincible, a man always on top of the world, never beaten for long. Men like Brendan didn't lose, didn't fall, didn't die at the hand of another. Brendan was undefeatable. Brendan was indestructible. Superman. But all Ste's cries of denial were met with Diarmuid's grave expression.

"Steven. I've seen the photos. Of his body. They're…they're not pretty, they're…"

Ste was purple faced, voice clogged by his own tears. He pushed Diarmuid away with arms and elbows like a child throwing a tantrum and refusing to believe it. "No! I want to see him! I want to see the photos."

"I can't let you see them, Steven. You want to see them. You don't want to remember him like that." Ste saw thin tears spike Diarmuid's eyes and his voice lower, ghoul-like. "Those pictures…they haunt me." There was a shared terror in that and in that moment Ste felt defeated himself, that his worst fears really were true and he slumped, his body falling against Diarmuid's and cried. After that was him giving up on his hope that Brendan had made it out alive.

On his luckier nights Brendan came to him in his dreams. His solid, muscular body silhouetted in the doorway. Ste loved his security, the warm of being pressed up against him – the scent of his ticklish body hair brushing the tip of his nose. Even in the dreams he'd ask Brendan, confirm he was really there.

"Where do you think I am?" he'd ask in the tone he reserved for between the sheets – deep and low, vibrating across their bodies.

Ste felt Brendan's hand sweep across his thin waist and his mouth find a warm fold of skin in the crook of his neck. He breathed out and Ste fluttered in a shiver, letting the weight of Brendan's body overwhelm him on the mattress. There was no distance between them, they transferred the same humid air between their mouths and were open-eyed and breathless when their mouths came together and apart, synchronised in a kiss. Ste smiled into it, the corners of his mouth catching on Brendan's as he slipped them apart.

His moustache bristled as he pulled apart. "What?" he asked, brow knotted with that curious head-tilt of his. That expression often arose when he studied Ste's body or reacted to an amusing kink of Ste's. He matched the soft little smirk that Ste held.

"Just…happy you're here. Kissing me."

"Kissing you." Brendan repeated and bowed his head, humming and angling his mouth to place his tongue against Ste's flushed pink nipple. "Kissing you here?"

"Everywhere," Ste said with a blissful sigh, relaxing back into the greed of having Brendan on top of him, making work of all his sensitive areas.

Ste felt his breath quicken, his body arch and cave with anticipation. Brendan's thighs gripped around his body and soon his hands stroked down Ste's sides and legs, lifting and positioning him. He had a look of wry satisfaction, although Ste's flexibility didn't come with limp passivity, Ste fought back in just as much passion, his tongue curled up behind his teeth and eyes darkening with a daring challenge. Sex felt like that – a conquest, a battle. Teasing and playing before the real event – the heart-ripping violence of the climax.

"Do your worst then," Ste said with a hint of impatience, eyeing up Brendan's cock, which jabbed impulsively against the flesh of his backside. He heard Brendan mutter something about a smart mouth before teasing the head of Ste's dick with his fingertips and revelling in the way he squirmed.

"I like it when you get all…twitchy…" he said, running ticklish rings around Ste's balls.

"Shu'up," Ste said, pressing his palms into the bed and pulling away up the bed.

Brendan did just as he asked and then spread his legs open, kneeling up and easing the head of his cock into Ste. Pleasure drummed its way through Ste's nerve endings, heat swelling his skin. Brendan was lethal to his senses and Ste threw a hand across his face and then clawed at Brendan's shoulders, caught between pulling him in deeper and pushing him away. Brendan's hands skimmed the lumber of Ste's spine as he wound his hips in deep thrusts, glancing at Ste's hollowed cheeks sucking for breath.

Brendan's grunts were like the hunt of a wild animal and Ste his feverish prey, twisting and turning in his grip. Not quite the victim, Ste squeezed his muscles with Brendan inside and watched the man's face change into something otherworldly. He surged, fucking Ste harder and it was exactly what Ste'd wanted.

But when he came, thudding and hot, he was alone again. Dreamless, sleepless. Empty. Brendan wasn't just gone from his bed. He was gone from the world. And the dreams played back in snapshots of what he'd once had and now had lost.

::

One night, after a troubled, erratic night, Ste woke in a fit of pain and fear to find Diarmuid at his bedside, dark in the shadows and stroking his sweat-damp hair.

He shushed him. "I'm here," he said, warm fingers soothing him. "Back to sleep now, boy." His thumb made careful strokes along Ste's cheekbone and he didn't fight it. He let Diarmuid coax him back to sleep. With the light off he could almost be Brendan. Diarmuid's touch caressed the back of his neck, his soft downy hair as he was dragged back under into sleep.

That morning, Ste awoke groggy to find Diarmuid asleep and crumpled on the sofa next to Ste's bed. He'd kept vigil the entire night and Ste felt almost guilty for it. After Diarmuid had persuaded him back to sleep, Ste had dreamt of returning home – to his home with Brendan – and going through their own things and now awake Ste wanted to do it for real, hoping it might offer him a sense of peace or comfort. He clambered out of bed and knelt by Diarmuid's side, shaking him gently awake.

He started, leaping immediately into holding Ste, cupping his face. "Is everything okay, Steven?"

His gaze fixed Ste with an unbreakable intensity, like being gripped. He laid a hand on Diarmuid's arm to push away his hold a little, but he couldn't deny the relief in being cared for and looked after.

"I need to go home. Sort some things," Ste said, building up an old determination that now felt alien in his head.

Diarmuid looked away and then blinked, shaking his head. "No, whatever you need we can sort it."

"No. I want to go home. I want to go back to mine and Brendan's. I want to see his things. Get photos of us."

Diarmuid's stoic expression unnerved him.

"What?"

Straightening himself up and briefly touching Ste's cheek, Diarmuid cleared his throat. His face washed with something sombre. "It's not possible, Steven."

"What do you mean?"

"There are certain things that have happened while you've been sleeping."

"Things? What things?"

Diarmuid stood and began pacing the room, prising words carefully. "Word got out to the press…to the paper. Brendan's been blamed for starting the war. I didn't want to tell you – couldn't tell you – because of the state you're in, but…oh Steven it's been hell." Diarmuid staggered to the bed, covering his face with his hands. "These godforsaken rebels got the wrong end of the stick – conflict between us and The East has spiralled. People are angry, Steven. So angry. The saw Brendan – _our_ Brendan – as the reason for it. They got hold of his, your, address and…it's been burnt to the ground. Every last brick. All your things…"

Ste's mouth stayed open as sobs took hold and a fresh wave of devastation gripped him. He had nothing left of Brendan now, nothing to even remind him. Not a photo. He sunk to the floor, bringing his knees to his chest, unable to ask the questions he should have asked Diarmuid – the whys, the hows. He should have asked about his own safety. But something in the way Diarmuid stepped straight over him, easing him back into bed, made him feel as if Diarmuid had taken over. He'd be protected now.

::

The news of the arson attack worsened his state, so much so Diarmuid had barely moved from his side – insisted on staying. He gave vital jobs to his deputy. Ste was too drained, too empty to question it. In some ways he welcomed Diarmuid staying; it was the closest thing left he had to Brendan. He hadn't heard from Cheryl and he was sure Diarmuid had mentioned her but the pills had messed up his memory so he couldn't recall what he'd said. Perhaps she was as devastated as he was, but she hadn't visited and Ste resented her slightly for that. It felt like he was being isolated on purpose.

They were due to hold a memorial for Brendan, six months to the day since he was murdered. Diarmuid had planned it all and Ste was overwhelmed with gratitude, although he struggled to express it in his numb state. The thought of it, of giving a speech and speaking about his love for Brendan stirred up painful visions the night before the service and he was ripped awake, screaming in the early hours.

"Oh Steven, you can't carry on like this," Diarmuid said. He'd been staying in a bedroom next door, having told Ste he felt solely responsible for him now and had been disturbed from sleep by Ste's cries. "I'll get you a doctor, a therapist – whatever you need."

Ste shook his head, taking gulps of water that Diarmuid had brought him. "I don't need them, alright? I'm not ill. My husband is dead! The love of –" he couldn't continue, crawling back into a foetal position in bed.

After a lengthy pause, with him sat on the bed, Diarmuid spoke softly. "Do you want me to lie next to you while you sleep?"

Ste swallowed, unsure, uneasy. "In bed?"

"So you feel safe, Steven."

Ste pressed his wet eyes into his forearm, sniffing. He said it, for the first time, he admitted it. "I'm so alone here." He cried, shoulders trembling with him hunched over.

It wasn't a refusal and Diarmuid slipped under the covers, and drew up on his side behind Ste. "You're not alone, Steven."

Ste closed his eyes, the bed dipping in the space behind him, sharing a warm bed with his protector – his breath on the back of Ste's neck. If he slipped into sleep, it could just be…it could just be…

As sleep tugged at him, he felt an arm slip around him, lips on his shoulder and the ghost of Brendan pressing up behind him. At least, the dreams told him it was Brendan holding him through the night, even if it wasn't.

::

It was a private memorial held in a secluded garden on the estate, shrouded in darkness as the sun had set. Candles were lit, a classical string piece played and the only photo left of Brendan – a mug shot – sat surrounded by lilies and crucifixes. Diarmuid had read a poem and a letter Ste had written but couldn't bring himself to read. But the mourners weren't really mourners at all, just people Diarmuid had roped in from his offices and Ste's kids who were quickly shunted away again by the nanny so as not to get upset at their father's state of mind.

Diarmuid was praying. Ste found it odd still – religion. But it came as no surprise that Diarmuid would be religious too. Seeing him so caught up in this strange world of God made Ste's chest ache. Once Diarmuid was finished he sat beside Ste on a wall, their view of the gardens lit only by the moonlight. They were completely alone, faces cold and stiff from crying.

He placed his hand on top of Ste's, squeezing it in reassurance.

"You were so brave told. So brave."

"I don't feel it," Ste said, choking back the lump in his throat. "That poem were lovely. And thank you for reading my words. I can't spell much and my reading's bad."

"Steven, it was from the heart – that's what counts." Diarmuid looked out, across the hedgerows. "I know what my brother told you about me probably wasn't good. And truth be told I can't excuse myself, I can't tell you it was lies. But he was still my brother, you know? My strong, brave brother. And my world is smaller without him. I feel lost – after finding him again, making peace. He was such a force, such a man…" It was only when Ste looked up he realised Diarmuid was crying, screwing up his face and expelling tears in rapid fire. "I'm sorry," he said. "It's selfish of me to be upset when you've lost him too. But he was my blood, my family…"

Ste had never seen Diarmuid like this and with his head woozy on sleeping tablets he didn't know what to say in comfort. He let Diarmuid fall into his arms and the sobs mould them into one. Diarmuid's chest thudded against him and it was then Ste realised he couldn't remember what Brendan smelt like, only Diarmuid – it had merged in his head. He was caught up in this hazy, swaying state that he didn't realise Diarmuid had pulled away a little.

His forehead pressed against Ste's, both their bodies reeling with the thumping of grief stricken hearts. Then Diarmuid closed the gap and pressed his lips against Ste's, diving his hands into Ste's hair and slipping his silvery tongue into Ste's mouth in a taste of bitter, salty tears. His kiss was solid and forceful and the charged emotion of it took Ste back into another time, another place. He was kissing Brendan. Everything told him this was Brendan. The smell, the weight of it, the rough bristle of his facial hair, the feel of his hands.

But as reality came skidding back and the hallucination melted away, Ste shoved Diarmuid away, disgusted by what he'd just done.

::

_If Diarmuid finds out I'm alive he'll have me killed – properly this time. I know why I was the target. Once his men thought they'd finished me off and I laid there in pools of blood and a barely audible heartbeat – I heard them talk. I concentrated on the words to keep myself conscious I was killed because the potent wanted a new lover. My lover. Diarmuid wanted me out the way just to get to Steven. Without me he's vulnerable and it's eating away at me that I've been gone for so long. I "died" four years ago and Diarmuid was there, in my place. But I'm out of sight now, getting closer. Working my way home, to Steven._


	4. Chapter 4

_When you really want something you have to work at it. Orchestrate. I'm the master composer of this story; I'm turning the cogs. Steven's love for my brother was – is – stubborn and obsessive. They'd leave a trail of corpses to be together. They have. But then so would I. I guess the Brady blood we share is thicker than I thought. Violent and brutal. It's why I had to butcher dear old Brendan._

_Steven wasn't going to slip quietly into my grasp – I had to work on him. Comfort him, touch him, be in his thoughts. There was a danger of acting too soon and losing him, but I had a plan for that too. I wasn't going to give him much choice in the matter._

_::_

"I don't know what I was thinking," Ste said, throwing his hands across his face and slumping back down on the wall. How could he have kissed Diarmuid? He considered backing away, running away and hiding his shame but Diarmuid was equally as apologetic.

"Fuck. I'm sorry," Diarmuid said, touching his lips and bowing his head. He eased away from the wall. "I'll leave you to – er…"

Ste's chest hammered and he still had tears slugging down his cheeks but being alone felt too terrifying when he was awake. Guilt consumed him but he let Diarmuid make the excuses for him, retreating into a hunched position and tugging at the sleeves of his mourning suit. He remembered Lynsey's funeral years ago, a lifetime, and how Brendan's grief had manifested into anger and the need to be close to someone. Ever since Ste could remember he'd longed to feel looked after and loved. He knew on the shrink's couch he'd put it down to childhood and a lack of a loving stable family but in truth nothing could fill that emptiness. Not quite. Not until Brendan. It felt as if his whole life had been waiting for him. It seemed cheesy – the made for each other phrase was overused and tired – but he couldn't think of it in any other way. Brendan made him complete. They made each other whole. Without that they'd both spent years masking their emptiness with people the wrong fit.

"Don't go," Ste said, his voice just louder than the crickets buzzing in the gardens. "You're the closest I've got to him left."

Diarmuid's voice didn't change in the darkness and he moved closer, sitting beside Ste again. Despite the kiss, Ste felt it was understood – just a moment of madness - and leaned onto Diarmuid's body for support, clutching onto his suit and letting soft cries be muffled into him. Diarmuid's caressed the back of his neck, smooth and steady. He felt safer than he'd felt in months.

Later they had dinner together in an overly large dining hall. It felt ridiculous just the two of them there overlooked by paintings of all the potentates in history with their glassy eyes. Ste's eyes were sore and bloodshot like a battleground and he was quietly thankful for the room's dimmed lighting. He sat opposite Diarmuid, both of them with their funeral jackets and ties discarded and shirt sleeves rolled up as they chased food around their plates. It all tasted metallic to Ste after so long being medicated.

"I didn't think you'd be bi," Ste said when they were alone. The mystery of Diarmuid's sexuality had resurfaced now that his misery had settled. It felt like blood in the system; the grief was constant – he knew it was there – but he couldn't feel its journey.

Diarmuid's mouth lifted and he slotted his fingers together. "What, you thought there could only be one in every generation?"

Ste blushed, shrugging in his ignorance. He sipped at the wine to his right even though he knew it was bad to mix. His dreams might be worse – more vivid – but they might let him hold onto Brendan too if he was lucky.

"I thought you might have noticed when we first met." He fixed him with his gaze.

"I thought you were with Marianna?" Their first meeting came flooding back to him – Diarmuid's sharp, small eyes following him around the room, drinking him in. There were his comments too about being beyond a wife, the incident with the lad from the press office.

"I was," Diarmuid said reaching over to top up Ste's glass, "but I was with the nineteen year old intern too. You've not met him." Diarmuid's tone and the way he acknowledged his promiscuity with a jovial wink at Ste eased the tension in the air if only for a moment. Diarmuid's laughter warmed the room in a sickly ringing sound. Ste smiled briefly. Diarmuid continued, between sips of wine. "I enjoy people. Company. Intimacy. Pleasure. Sex. We all do, don't we?"

Ste nodded, his head barely moving. His thoughts drifted back to Brendan. He stopped eating, folding his knife and fork together.

"What about love, though?" He scratched at his skin, fidgeting in his seat. He felt under pressure again, under the weight of sadness and wanted to escape.

"Love is painful," Diarmuid said and then reached across the table to touch Ste's hand in an acknowledgement of his loss, "but I'm not against it. In fact…I want it."

Ste had spent almost twenty one years of his life believing he'd worked out what love was. He'd known Pauline and Terry hadn't given it to him and what he'd had from fleeting girlfriends like Theresa McQueen hadn't been it, but Amy and the kids – that had been love. The closest he felt to it. Meeting Brendan had turned that upside down – then he really knew. He'd had every heart-stopping, painful, beautiful unconditional moment of it.

Diarmuid's thumb passed over Ste's knuckles and at the same time Ste cleared his throat and pushed his plate away interrupting the silence.

"Thanks for dinner. I needed that. It was good." Ste was aware his sentences were awkward and overly formal and he felt light headed from the wine. "I should really get going back to my room."

Diarmuid straightened himself up and gestured to the wine. "There's still a glass left if you want to help me finish it."

"No you're alright. I've had enough. Probably not a good idea anyway, what with the pills n'that. Don't want to be knocked out." He made light of it, but he'd rarely been conscious the last six months.

Diarmuid smiled faintly. "No, you don't." He threw back the remains of his glass into his mouth, leaving his lips wet. "Let me escort you back."

Ste stood and shifted on his feet. "You know I think it's probably better if I go on my own. Like, alone." He was thinking about the kiss - the heat of it - he felt vulnerable and he didn't want Diarmuid to get the wrong idea, didn't want to use him. His grief was fragile too.

"I wasn't trying to take advantage earlier. If that's what you're worried about." There was an edge to his voice, an accusation that only served to make Ste feel guiltier.

He tried to laugh it off, squeeze out a smile. "Nah, nah I know. It ain't that."

"Good," Diarmuid said standing up and dwarfing Ste's height, "because it was just a moment of comfort. I needed it. You needed it. You mustn't avoid comfort because you feel guilty."

Comfort was a shoulder to cry on or a warm bodied hug, soothing words, company to break up the loneliness. Ste swallowed the knot in his throat. That wasn't the way he remembered the kiss but his memory lately had been like trying to sieve treacle. Maybe he was getting confused; perhaps he'd be lost in his visions of Brendan and the kiss had been innocent after all. Yet if he could drag his mind back to it he could have sworn a feeling of sex pulsed behind the kiss.

Diarmuid's hand rested on his shoulder and the free hand cupped the side of Ste's cheek. He was very hands on with everyone, not just the staff he was sleeping with. Diarmuid's heavily shadowed face was hard to read. He kissed the side of Ste's forehead paternally and wished him goodnight.

:: ::

Disturbances ripped Ste from sleep twice in the night; one the fever of a wet dream and then much later when he'd lulled himself back to sleep, a loud and desperate knocking on the door of his room.

He dreamt of sex. The type of sex he hadn't had in a long time. Not the type of entwined intimate sex of a couple that have been together so long that the rhythms and lusts are like well-driven roads; not the sex which wakes him in the morning and leaves him burying under the covers with his mouth to satisfy his hunger; not the kind where he takes charge or plays at submission when Brendan's fired up and cavemen about things. No. New sex. First time virgin territory. Fear and nerves and discomfort and uncertainty about pace and position and protection and head face down into the bed submission. Speechless and awed. Utterly surrendered.

The dream had been like watching his first time with Brendan as a movie, but more vivid - reliving it all over again. Not their frenzied encounter in the cellar of the club where Ste came too fast and had the taste of Brendan's cock in his mouth for the first time. No, they were in the village, on Ste's old bed with the flowery wallpaper peeling behind them, the stringy net curtains throwing mottled light onto their naked bodies. Brendan arched above him, his thighs open, pinning Ste to the bed. His sexuality felt threatening. Ste hadn't seen him like this: uncaged. He'd wanted to gabble but Brendan had shushed him with his mouth, fisting his cock in a way that made Ste's head scream. He broke away from the kiss with nervous laughter and Brendan's mouth disappeared to kiss his inner thighs. With his moustache it was ticklish anyway but no girl had ever cared to do something like this. He felt special.

"You're going to enjoy this, Steven," Brendan had said in a way that made Ste believe it. His mouth hung open and he felt just about brave enough to reach out and touch Brendan on the shoulders.

The dream diverted from reality then. Because in the dream Brendan didn't lift up Ste's legs and tease his finger around the hole. In the dream he didn't keep eye contact and keep checking Ste liked it, or find condoms and lube. In the dream Ste didn't get to see Brendan's irises melt and his face shudder when he entered Ste for the first time.

In the dream, Brendan flipped him onto his front and buried his rough mouth between his cheeks, tonguing him open and not waiting for even so much as a breath from Ste before he was deep inside him, pounding him into the bed. With Ste's head turned and the back of his head stroked over and over in time with Brendan's thrusts, Ste could only just make out the shadowy form of Brendan behind him, fucking the virgin out of him. He took charge of Ste's body, pulling him up onto all fours. All his words were a blur and Ste's cries were nothing more than jibberish and snatched breaths. Brendan came and Ste found himself falling flat on the bed, eyes closed and body ringing. He was pulled onto his back and finished off, deep at the back of his lover's throat.

When he came he opened his eyes and the man who looked triumphantly straight into his eyes, the man wiping his mouth wasn't Brendan at all. It was Diarmuid.

Ste was thrown straight into consciousness and woke up, skin prickled with sweat and the bed sheets stuck to him. He reasoned with himself – the kiss, the wine, the day's entanglement of Brendan with Diarmuid. He bundled the bed clothes in the wash basket and slumped on the edge of the bath making himself sob and retch with the guilt and grief before eventually crawling back to bed with exhaustion.

Hours later he was woken again with the door thudding in the frame. His heartbeat raced to match up to the speed of the knocking and he ran to the door.

Diarmuid answered looking dishevelled but dressed. The atmosphere of the building told Ste it must have been the early hours and to wake him like this something serious had happened. He searched his face for answers.

"What is it? What's wrong?"

Diarmuid clutched at him, inhaling labouredly. "It's the kids, Steven. Someone's taken the kids."

Ste staggered backwards, the world feeling light and shaky around him. He stumbled around for something to hold onto and Diarmuid was there, holding out his arms ready to catch him. His screams of no blurred into one pained sound until desperation tugged at him and he begged Diarmuid for answers.

"I'm going to find them, Steven. I'll make sure of it. I promise you. I'm going to find them myself. And whoever did this will pay." An assistant stood nearby and handed Diarmuid his coat.

"The car's waiting, Mr Brady," the assistant said.

Diarmuid pressed his mouth to Ste's forehead, combing back his hair. "Steven I promise you, okay? The kids are going to be fine. We've got everyone searching. We will find them." He took Ste's face in his hands, holding him firmly. "Look at me. I promise you."

Ste was limp as Diarmuid handed him over to his assistant and instructed her: "Don't let him leave your sight and don't let him do anything stupid."

Diarmuid had everything ready to leave in his mission to find the kids as Ste called out to him.

"Diarmuid!" he said, hysterical. "_Please_…_please_."

:: ::

At Ste's angered insistence, Diarmuid's assistant let him watch the news in the room. Ste remembered that Brendan stopped listening to Isle News once Diarmuid took over saying the stations had started covering things up, had started twisting things.

"The news ain't news now," Brendan had said once he'd turned off the TV over dinner. "It's what they want you to know. They tell you what makes Diarmuid look good. That ain't the truth."

Ste sat alert watching the news unfold, the live ticker tape detailing his children's kidnap and the reporters pulling concerned faces as they updated the audience.

"_The two children – Leah and Lucas Hay – are believed to have been taken from the potentate's estate at three o'clock this morning and discovered missing by the nanny an hour later. The children are the offspring of Steven Hay the widower of terrorist Brendan Brady, who died after starting conflict with The East. Earlier this year Brendan Brady, the half-brother of Diarmuid Brady, had his estate burnt down in a retaliation attack. It is believed that Mr Hay's children have been taken as further punishment for the terrorist actions of Brendan Brady. Rumours are circulating that attempts to take Mr Hay's life were thwarted by the potentate's security force in recent months."_

Ste could barely process what they were saying and the way they were talking about Brendan made him feel sick. He sat for a while in the bathroom, gagging on bile as the assistant rapped softly on the door asking if he was okay. He was washing his face, choking through sobs when he heard her voice cry out through the door.

"They're safe! Ste! The kids! They're safe!"

Ste tore out of the bathroom to watch the news unfold. It was like watching somebody else's tragedy. His children came into focus, sleepy and confused by unharmed. In Diarmuid's arms. Diarmuid himself looked bloody and beaten but he was shielding the children like they were his own. The press leapt on him immediately, grilling him for answers.

"The children need to get home to bed and to see their father. I'm just relieved they're safe and well."

"Mr Brady, what was your involvement? You look shaken."

"I did what needed to be done. There was a scuffle, but I rescued these angels, that's all that matters."

"That sounds heroic."

"I'm not a hero. I'm just looking out for my family. Protecting them at all costs."

"That must be especially important now after the betrayal of your brother-"

"-let me get the children home and you can interview me in the morning."

With that, Diarmuid was packed into a car and the reports were summarised back in the TV studios. Ste's breathing was ragged and he sat on the edge of the bed, adrenaline making him shake. An hour later when Diarmuid and the children came rushing through his door, Ste held his kids and never wanted to let go.

Diarmuid had his staff set up camp beds in Ste's bedroom and security on the door at all times. He stood in the doorway, fresh cuts bleeding onto his shirt and darkness pooling under his eyes. Ste clung to him, crying with relief.

"Thank you," he said, trembling. "Thank you."

Diarmuid stroked the back of his neck, shushing him like a child. He winced as Ste's arms tightened around him. "Shit, sorry," Ste said, pulling away, "are you okay?"

His face crumpled a little and he raised his shirt to show Ste a whole map of bruises on his torso. "I'll live. I'm just glad your babies are safe."

"I don't know how to repay you."

He shook his head gently, holding Ste's head in his hands. His fingers were rough with scraped skin. "You don't need to."

Ste could feel himself crumbling again. "Everything they were saying on the news…"

Diarmuid put a solid arm around Ste's shoulders and guided him into one of the smaller rooms connected to Ste's bedroom. The kids had crashed out as soon as they'd got into bed but there were still people milling around trying to sort out security and press issues. There was a small bar where Diarmuid took Ste and he poured them both a drink before nodding at Ste to sit on the couch.

"Eighty seven," Diarmuid said.

It seemed unconnected to anything and Ste's brow fell, waiting for an answer.

"That's how many attempts on your life we've stopped this month. Eighty seven threats." He spoke plainly. Ste found it cold almost, business like. It was like he didn't want to scare Ste but chill him enough that he'd take notice. "In their eyes you're the husband of a terrorist. They want you dead, Steven. They want your kiddies slaughtered. They want repayment. Revenge."

Ste said nothing – what could he say? He'd been dragged into a world he didn't even know existed.

"I'm struggling to keep you all safe," Diarmuid said, head bowed, his voice a gruff whisper. "I can't lose you too."

"But…you can't keep me safe? My kids?!"

Diarmuid ran a hand through his thick hair. It looked like he was sitting on his words, choosing his answer – battling with himself to speak. "I can. I know how."

Ste's voice fluctuated, indignant. "Well why don't you then?!"

"Steven, for me to truly keep you safe, to give you the ultimate protection. To make sure something like this never happens again…" Diarmuid breathed in deeply and placed his hand on top of Ste's, "You have to marry me."

:: ::

_Of course no one was interested in Steven Hay or his children. Or even Brendan for that matter. Insignificant. There were no death threats, arson attacks or kidnaps. The press called Brendan a terrorist because I told them to. The kids were kidnapped because I paid for them to be. The house was burnt down because I ordered it. My big rescue attempt? A set up. I knew where the kids were. The injuries were authentic but then I needed him to see me as a hero. His big, strong saviour. He believed everything I told him. He fell for my lies and it was only a matter of time before he fell for me._


	5. Chapter 5

A potentate's wedding would be on the television for days, in the papers, on the radio. All across the world. Ste remembered the last potentate's wedding. He couldn't have been more than thirteen at the time and even though he had zero interest, it was unavoidable. The coverage was obsessive and conversation about it gripped everyone on The Isle. The choice of bride then was deemed controversial but still, everyone crowded around TV screens to watch the ceremony. The potentate's wife became paparazzi fodder as soon as the engagement was announced.

Diarmuid's announcement of the engagement to the world came with another shock revelation – for the public at least. He had changed the law for potentates: they were now free to marry someone of the same sex. The rejoicing by equality groups deafened the detractors, except for the few quiet voices who noticed his law changes didn't come without consequence. While some saw Diarmuid Brady's law change as huge progress, others read the small print. Yes, potentates _were_ now allowed to marry someone of the same sex, they were even allowed to practise polygamy if they wished – but as these developments happened, minorities in The Isle were slowly being stripped of their rights. But with the potentate's wedding imminent, protests were shut down and campaigners arrested, blogs deleted – the nation was forced into focusing on the celebrations. And Diarmuid told Ste that the recent arrests were all men who had been trying to get to him and the family. Ste had no reason to doubt him after the incident with the children.

If Ste married Diarmuid then he'd be automatically be granted the highest security and anyone who attempted to interfere with him or the family would be executed. He could live without fear.

On the morning of the wedding, Ste sat in his suit and screamed for a moment's privacy amid the throng of make-up artists, advisors, PAs clustered around him. He even had a choreographer to help him practise his walk in time to the national anthem. Now alone, his eyelids blistered from crying. He couldn't stop thinking about the last time he got married.

Years ago now. He remembered the day. The weather outside was nondescript. The sort of sky that would be flat and grey in wedding photos – except they hadn't bothered with anything like that. No fuss. A handful of guests, an old song Brendan had picked, a cake from ASDA. It had spat with rain when they'd left the registry office and Brendan's moustache fuzzed out with water droplets like a dewy fir tree. Ste had laughed when he noticed, standing on the steps of the old building, and Brendan's frown was so thick-set and paranoid that when Mitzeee snapped a shot of them on her camera – just as Cheryl insisted on confetti – the photograph summed them up completely. The significance of the day wasn't lost on them; they knew how long it had taken to get there, how hard it had been. But the celebration didn't need any added extras, no extravagance. It was about simplicity. Brendan losing a moment of self-consciousness and sliding his fingers between Ste's as if to say: _we made it_.

::

He didn't remember saying he wanted to marry Diarmuid – he hadn't. But he didn't refuse. He agreed. He bowed and nodded his head, believing the only choice was the one to keep himself and his children safe.

"It's a ceremony. A certificate. A symbol." Diarmuid had explained it plainly; he played down what marriage was really about, what it ought to be about. Love.

"But I'm already married, aren't I? To Brendan," Ste had said, knowing how weak his words sounded. He wasn't married anymore. He was widowed. The words fizzled out aware of how pathetic it seemed.

Diarmuid took Ste in his arms, breathing in the scent of his skin like attempting to embed it in his system. "Precious boy," he said, words flushed out in a sigh. "He's gone. And Brendan can't save you anymore. I can; I'm doing this for you." His hands stroked Ste's hair flat to his head and their eyes met in understanding. Ste believed his word and Diarmuid sealed the acceptance in a kiss. By the next morning the world knew.

::

The day blurred; Ste had been escorted everywhere. Guards, security, the military. Ste didn't need reminding they were in the midst of the war with The East. The war Brendan was supposed to – in their eyes - have started. Ste was reminded by everyone he met that this was a day of great celebration for The Isle's people – a distraction from the death and misery. It was a sign of hope too, of change. Ste had overheard chatter in the crowds – he was the terrorist's ex-husband making good, realising the error of his ways. He'd swapped a terrorist for the potentate – what a turnaround they'd said.

He'd cried during the service, tried to mask it by pinching himself into a smile. Diarmuid's eyes had blackened in panic but he laughed it off for the cameras, trying to enforce the idea of Ste's tears being through happiness.

The vows were different when you were marrying the potentate. With Brendan it had been about loving and cherishing.

_Obey. Submit. Sacrifice. Honour. Serve._ Those were the words he repeated, not really registering, not really understanding what they meant. He was required by law to say them. _ I promise to consummate the marriage on the immediate will of the potentate._ Diarmuid nodded through the words, wispy laughter lines appearing alongside a smile each time Ste finished a statement of the vows.

There was music and speeches and a public address and food, photos and a greeting of hoards of citizens. Ste's mind had grown so dizzy with champagne and claustrophobic attention that he was grateful when time came for privacy and time alone.

It didn't last.

He now lived in the potentate's living quarters, shared a bedroom – a bed – with Diarmuid. Armed guards patrolled the corridors and staff were on hand for everything, even more so when he'd lived in his own part of the estate. The children's rooms were a few doors away, locked with fingerprint scanners. It felt extreme – threatening almost – but after the kidnap, necessary.

Ste shirked off his jacket and tie. He stood in the bathroom running the taps until they were ice cold before splashing water onto his face. He caught sight of the new ring on his finger. Diamonds were encrusted on the inside – they weren't even there for anyone to see, just a sign of wealth and status. He heard the combination lock on the front door bleep and finished up in the bathroom. After the hectic crowds, it was almost a relief to see just Diarmuid there.

He gave Ste a wordless smile and slipped off his jacket and shoes. He'd brought more champagne with him and indulgently thick slices of cake. It lifted Ste's mood a little when he tasted it, the sugary icy melting away on his tongue. He sat on the couch as Diarmuid hovered nearby, standing as he poured more drinks.

"No more for me," Ste said, shaking away the offer of a drink. "My head's all fuzzy as it is."

Diarmuid sat beside him, downed half his glass and then rested his hand on Ste's knee. "Are you okay?"

He shrugged a little. "Okay. I think so."

"You were amazing today," he said, giving Ste's thigh a gentle squeeze. "You know, no one could tear their eyes away from you."

He smiled faintly. It didn't really feel like much of a compliment. Ste fidgeted with his hands, purposely avoiding looking at the wedding band. "Just sorta glad the whole day's over. Pressure's off."

"Yeah, sure," Diarmuid said, absentmindedly. The back of his knuckles stroked up and down Ste's leg.

Ste stood, shaking Diarmuid off in a half yawn that was only partly exaggerated. "Really knackered, me."

"Steven-" Diarmuid said, stopping him with two hands on his shoulders. He smoothed out the fabric, circling his thumbs in massaging, hypnotic circles. His lips touched the nape of Ste's neck, sending a physical shiver through his spine. "I don't know what I'd do without you," he murmured, lips tracing over the skin. There was a desperation in his voice, a loneliness Ste recognised.

Ste turned, stepping into Diarmuid's embrace. His words in the speeches at the wedding came back to him. Each compliment blossomed an affection inside of him. Diarmuid changed laws for him just to keep him safe.

"Let's go to bed," Diarmuid said, caressing the curve of Ste's spine, pausing at his backside.

"Bed?" Ste said, pulling away a little. "You mean?"

Diarmuid took Ste's hand, pressing the wedding ring between his thumb and finger. "If we don't, this isn't valid. It won't count."

Ste swallowed. He didn't know, he didn't know what he'd agreed to. _I promise to consummate the marriage on the immediate will of the potentate._

As he was held, Ste felt the thudding of their hearts together, Diarmuid's steady panting on the back of his head. Their bodies pulsed. He hadn't been intimate in so long.

Diarmuid's mouth pressed hot and damp at the crook of Ste's neck. The bristles of his face itched and Ste slid out of his grip. He had half moon teeth marks where Diarmuid had sucked at him like juice in fruit. Something resembling anger moved across Diarmuid's face until he closed his hanging mouth and stepped towards Ste with open palms. The room widened, humid with the shifting mood. Ste's stomach turned with guilt and an uncomfortably familiar throb between his legs.

"It's not right," he said, raising his hand to his mouth. He looked across the room and saw Diarmuid's suit trousers already loosened at the waist. The whole set up of the bedroom was a held breath of anticipation. Ste's belongings, his clothes, his toiletries, were already lined up here. Next to Diarmuid's.

"You're my husband," he said, not with the affection it held when he said it over the wedding breakfast earlier - with a glass raised - looking at Ste with a fondness that he could actually feel in his chest. For a moment then he thought he wouldn't mind being married to Diarmuid. "What's not right about that?" Diarmuid tilted his head to one side in a way that was so reminiscent of Brendan, Ste had to steady himself.

"It doesn't feel right."

The menace slipped and Diarmuid's soft edges returned. He held their hands together and laid Ste's hands on his chest. Through the shirt Ste felt the thrum of his heart and warmth on his face as Diarmuid's hands cupped his cheeks.

"I know this is not the way we wanted things to go. And, so help me God, if I could sacrifice myself to bring my brother back, I would-"

"-Diarmuid-" Ste interrupted, startled that he would say something so extreme, so loving, so selfless, knowing how Brendan felt about him.

"No Steven, I'm serious. I would never - I don't ever - live easy knowing he's gone and it should've been me." His eyes were glassy.

Ste sunk in closer at Diarmuid's affecting words, touching his face as a single tear skimmed his thumb.

"But I owe it to him to look after you," he said, "and I can't deny that I'm attracted to you. And if you're honest with yourself – you're attracted to me too."

Ste's lips parted but wordless as he tried to deny the shadow of Brendan he found in Diarmuid, how he felt able to hold onto him in some way, however small. Diarmuid's charisma and power intoxicated him as much as Brendan's had in those early months of their affair. He was attracted to him. That made it worse in some ways. It made it harder to get over the loss of Brendan. Diarmuid was in his head, and in Diarmuid, Brendan was always present.

"It's not a crime to feel something." Diarmuid loosened his grip and his voice became low and soulful. Ste felt it licking his insides. "Close your eyes."

Diarmuid lulled Ste into it and he stood still, unresisting as Diarmuid's lips opened up against his neck and then graced his mouth, deceptively gentle at first. Ste's hands dropped to Diarmuid's waist and as the smoothness of Diarmuid's tongue met his and the coarse facial hair roughed his lips it felt like being home again, with Brendan.

Diarmuid had him swept up into the frenzy of it. It had been four hundred and seven days since being touched so intimately by a man and with his eyes closed, Diarmuid's forceful handling of his cock felt like fire. Familiar fire. Ste kissed back hungrily, scraping his teeth into the bristles of Diarmuid's blended moustache aware of his impatient panting and the way Diarmuid's erection rutted against him. He tried pushing it out of his mind, drawing on memories of his wedding night with Brendan - a million miles away from this encounter.

Ste's trousers and underwear were tugged down carelessly and Diarmuid's descent of kissing made Ste's touch reach automatically for his head, pushing him down. An Oh stuck in his throat but his lips rolled to murmur the Br sound of his desired lover as Diarmuid got ever closer to claiming him. He couldn't apologise because it held no truth so he stayed guiltily silent, eyes squeezed tight. Diarmuid hesitated and instead of taking Ste in his mouth spat into his hand, in a sound that resembled disgust. Ste had a moment of brief disorientation as Diarmuid spun him around and bent him across the bed before letting him settle on his elbows and rubbing saliva across his hole.

His face grazed the softness of Ste's backside and the ticklish spikes made his moans resurface. Diarmuid licked him apart, lubricating him and inserting his fingers one at a time. It had been so long but Diarmuid didn't wait for any of Ste's discomfort to pass.

"I do love you, Steven," he said. "More than you think." His tongue lapped mercilessly at Ste's opening. Then he was up on his feet, leaning heavily on Ste's back and pulling on his hair, driving his cock deep inside Ste.

Diarmuid's thrusts were sharper and faster than Brendan's had ever been and as soon as he started fucking, the difference between them hit Ste in the chest. He couldn't close his eyes and imagine the man smothering him, the man pleasuring and hurting him all at once was Brendan because it wasn't. It was Diarmuid. His arms were stretched and pinned out across the bed, his body curved and used.

Ste came. They were half consummated. Ste's semen there on the martial bed like a crime scene reminder.

Diarmuid wore a battered snarl-smile of satisfaction by the time Ste had been coerced into opening his eyes. Diarmuid's cock stood relentlessly hard.

"Finish me off, there's a good lad."

Ste raised his hand lethargically, body reeling.

"No," Diarmuid said, pushing Ste down on the bed and kneeling his way up there. He straddled him. "With your mouth."

::

Curled up around Diarmuid in the early hours as sunlight infiltrated the bedroom, Ste's emptiness crippled him. Diarmuid looked gnarled as he slept, his features jagged and tight as if in the throes of an argument. Somewhere underneath it all was the last lingering traces of Brendan - Ste told himself. Being with Diarmuid felt different, but it had made him feel closer and yet distant to Brendan all at once. Now that the quiet of the night had settled - that vacuous period before dawn - Ste could count their differences with ease and the pain sprung fresh sadness from him.

As if he felt it in his sleep, Diarmuid's arm secured around Ste's back. Briefly placated, Ste nestled against Diarmuid's protective chest. He wasn't alone. He wasn't unsafe. He didn't love Diarmuid - how could he? He liked him; he felt looked after. And Diarmuid loved him. He was all he had now.

::

_In the years of careful planning to flee The East I made contacts in The Isle. People who knew people. People who knew the truth. They'd seen holes in Diarmuid's stories, saw him for who he really was. They worked underground. They could help me. But it would take time. I didn't have time, but I had nothing left to lose. Diarmuid had married Steven. The news was unavoidable. Devastating. If I hadn't seen the photos of his soulless misery as they wed I might've…I might've left the world for real._

_But four years on from my "death" I'm home. On Isle soil. Disguised, a new identity. I feel inhuman. Invincible. I'm ready to fight for him. I'm ready to kill for him again. I'm ready to destroy Diarmuid for good._


End file.
